By Wimple Saved
by TMI Fairy
Summary: Slight AU - Boromir lives and Denethor keeps his sanity. Relations between Aragorn and the Steward are tense. After the departure of the Army of the West aka Forlorn Hope for the Black Gates, Denethor embarks on springtime house cleaning, starting with his sons, both wounded at Pellenor Fields. Eowyn is dragged into a desperate attempt to save the life of one of the Steward's sons.
1. He lives! and Off with his head!

I wish to thank Tadah2 for her painstaking betaing of the text and TommyGinger for inspiration and prodding.

For example of wimple look to story pic.

AN:

AU - Boromir had not died at Amon Hen and arrives at Minas Tirith together with Gandalf and Pippin. He is later wounded during the Battle of Pellenor Fields. Otherwise events are more or less as per canon, apart from Denethor not going bonkers, so there is no self immolation attempt. After the battle the political situation is tense, with the Steward having no intention to yield to the King.

I gave Eomund's father Eoric (non-canon name) a younger sister, Eoforhild. She is Elfhelm's mother. Hence the future Marshal of the Eastfold is 2nd cousin once removed to Eomer and Eowyn, some ten years or so older then Eomer.

In my opinion Tolkien uses semi-Salic rules for succession, where a woman does not inherit but her son or sons do. Hence the line is continued by a sister-son.

In my headcanon the Mark under Fengel King (Theoden's grandfather) was a very dark place, with the Crown buying nobles' support by giving them free rein over commoners.

Italics denote non-canon events or names

2942 _Leofhild weds Eobald_

2943 _Eoric is born_

2945 _Eoforhild is born_

2960 _Eoric marries Wynflaed_

2961 Eomund born

2963 Theodwyn born

2980 Elfhelm _born to Eoforhild and Wulfhelm_

2989 Eomund and Theodwyn marry

2991 Eomer born

2995 Eowyn born

3002 Eomund killed, Theodwyn dies "soon" afterwards

After Theodwyn's death Eomer and Eowyn are taken from Aldburg to Edoras by Théoden.

Major jump of perspective or timing is signalised by a string of s's.

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Denethor looked upon the host leaving for Morannon. A hare-brained scheme if there was one, if anybody asked him. He could only hope that the losses they would inflict on the Enemy, on top of those Mordor and its allies had already suffered at Pellenor and Pelargir, would end the campaign season for this year. The inevitable defeat of Thorongil - he did not care for that man's myriad nicknames - would eliminate the "Return of the King" nonsense. What Denethor was unhappy about was the loss of the force The Ranger was leading. So he got to the business of limiting the losses' adverse impact on the Kingdom. A realm in his own good care, thank you very much.

The Steward feared that the Forlorn Hope expedition would cause disturbance among the Noble Houses in Gondor, further aggravating the effects of the deaths of many Lords and their heirs at Pellenor. Here the heirless Duinhir of Vale of Morthond stood out as a blatant example. Therefore the Steward demanded that the Lords leave their heirs or - if they had none yet - not to lead their forces in person. To his surprise the Ranger had supported him on this - not that he doubted the Dishevelled One caring for Gondor - but pettiness was a trait common enough in the Race of Men as to make his opposition nothing out of the ordinary, simply because the idea had come from him. Once this idea was backed by his brother-in-law Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and the new Lord of Lossarnach Fuinor - a fresh replacement for his father, Forlond, fallen at the Pellenor just days before - both of whom had left at least one son at home before riding to Minas Tirith's succour - it was overwhelmingly accepted by the assembled lords.

He now could turn his attention to other matters. Besides repairing the damage wrought by the fighting, there were matters—one large, one small—that demanded his attention.

The big issue was Umbar. The third Numenorean successor state had lost most of its fleet at Pelargir. It would take years - maybe ten or more - before its navy was rebuilt to a state where it became more than just a nuisance. Such a rebuilding required not only ships, but also men and officers - all of which had been lost to that "Army of the Dead" the self-proclaimed Heir of Isildur was rumoured to have unleashed on it. Yet Denethor had no intention of giving Umbar time to rebuild.

He gave orders for the formation of the Umbarian Expedition. The fleet captured by the Ranger in Pelargir was to carry troops for a surprise assault on the city. As for troops, there were more than enough on hand. After the departure of the Forlorn Hope expedition the garrison, swelled by men from the Southern Fiefs, was stronger than it had been before the siege. Hence he had infantry to spare. The Lebennin and Dol Amroth navies were to protect the captured - and now manned by Gondorians - ex-raiding craft from interference from any remnants of Umbar's maritime might which were still afloat and manned. Capturing the city and stripping it of its inhabitants, of its shipwrights in particular, should buy the Southern Kingdom at least a generation of calm on its shores.

The lesser issue concerned Denethor's sons. Although both had failed him and Gondor, and both had disobeyed his orders, he still needed to keep one as heir. Here he had to grudgingly admit to himself that sending Boromir north had turned out to be a mistake. Not only did Boromir return another wizard's pet - like the long-standing failure had been already - but Thorongil's lap dog as well. Judging by Faramir's record, the younger failure will soon be another snivelling follower of the Usurper too.

Regardless of which son he kept, Denethor planned to take a good look at some of his kinsmen as possible replacements. Some might be up to the job. Training several of them as the "spare" should keep the surviving fool on his toes and in line. To his displeasure both failures managed to get themselves wounded - this ruled out the possibility of eliminating one offender by placing him with the Forlorn Hope. Hence Denethor would have to abandon subtlety and openly sentence one to death. This could be a good thing, sending out the message that nobody was above punishment. This would serve Gondor well.

Denethor visited the Houses of Healing to select the son better suiting his current purpose. He looked into the wounded, thus boosting the morale of the Gondorians. He made a point to visit the Eorling riders as well. Regardless of his feelings about them, the Rohirrim had been very important in the Battle of the Pellenor Fields. Some were marching at the Black Gate while - more importantly from his point of view - three thousand Riders under a certain Elfhelm were currently clearing Anorien of orcs at this very moment. Showing them appreciation and keeping them happy was sensible policy. Even their Princess had fought and her blade had brought down one of the Nazgul. How quaint. And absolutely unladylike. Simply outrageous.

After those public acts he sat down with the Warden and discussed the state of health of his sons. Were any of their injuries permanent? Could there be any long-term effects? After the meeting, he personally took a look at each of them to verify what the Warden had said against what he could himself see - it was too grave an issue to rely on reports alone - and then retired for the night.

Denethor woke up refreshed and made the final decision over breakfast. He called an audience for the throne room in the White Tower for the afternoon, with the selected failure being summoned. The other was to stay in the Houses of Healing. He did not wish any rash demonstration of brotherly affection, possibly leading to the sentencing of both. Denethor trusted that the spared one would come to his sire's point of view over time. Or else. For the good of Gondor. He sighed...

In the morning hours Denethor then busied himself with preparations for the Umbar raid and the allocation of captured enemy soldiers. Of course, the bards were already singing about "not a foe left living by fell blades of the West" but the Steward knew better - there ALWAYS were prisoners. The "non-existent" - according to bards - prisoners in fact numbered a good few thousand. Once the wounded prisoners recovered they would be offered an opportunity to fight for Gondor. As many of them were barbarians fighting for loot and blood letting - not necessarily in that order - he assumed that at least some should take up the offer.

The remainder would be put to use as forced labour, especially in areas that had lost the most men. Work gangs composed of former soldiers of the Dark Lord would lessen the burden on the locals. Human nature being what it is, the Steward hoped that over a few years most of the prisoners would end up marrying into the populace. He made a note to impress upon the local lords the need to farm out the prisoners to homesteads run by widows during harvest time. Men were men, women were women, and farms needed working hands. That should speed up the process of intermarriage. And if need be the prisoners could simply be killed, thus releasing the men guarding them for other duties.

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Meanwhile in the Houses of Healing an amused Merry was spying upon the spectacle in the gardens. The two Steward's sons and the White Lady of Rohan were holding a picnic of sorts. Of sorts, as the Prince-Stewards were trying to slip some food or drink through the gloomy Princess' defences. The hobbit wore an ear-to-ear grin. Plying a lass with food and drink was a fumbling lad's last resort in clumsy courting. And those two giants were both besotted and outrageously clumsy! Compared to them, Sam's courtship of Rosie made him one smooth charmer, it did! To top it off, the brothers were so absorbed by their "romantic" manoeuvres that they failed to see their actions mirrored by the other. The young Took bit into the sleeve of his coat to stifle his laughter watching one of the brothers seductively wave a gravy dripping drumstick in front of the Wraithsbane and make a long face when it was swatted away with a well audible harrumph!

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Denethor looked down at his son. Pale from his partly recovered wounds, he took his sentence well.

"Let my life be forfeit, then" - the tall, powerfully built Gondorian with gentle eyes uttered.

It was the gathered lords who gave off unmanly sounds of "oh!" and "ahh!" and "gasp!". He felt some misplaced pride in his son and in how he had trained him. The condemned Steward Prince was led away for his last night in a cell.

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The night saw some frenetic movement between the Citadel and the Houses of Healing. The room of the other Steward Prince hosted the conspirators - himself, the Warden of the Keys Hurin the Tall - a kinsman to the brothers, the three Guardsmen Beregond, Galon and Cavenor, and the Goodwife Ioreth. The group whispered of old laws, maidens, headwear, wagons and horses.

If there was an eager ear in the vicinity, it would have caught low tones asking:

"But would she be willing?"

"Will she have the strength?"

With a woman's voice replying that there are plants giving strength or better - disregard for one's weakness, while other make the mind more receptive to suggestion.

A muttered:

"But such manipulation is so low; it is so worthy of the Enemy, not of those who look to the Valar."

A stifled voice, spoken though a constricted throat, as if on the verge of tears.

"It indeed is a heavy burden we take upon our consciences. And we may be throwing away all our honour. But I would had failed in my duty to my brother had we not pursued all and every avenue to save him from the block. Yet, I still don't like what we are doing to her ... "

"It is a good match, a very good match, I'm sure King whatshisname Eromeer will be delighted."

"Indeed. Surely he can see that his House would never have made such a match otherwise?"

"My only consolation lies with my brother being a man of honour. I trust nothing that cannot be undone will happen and an annulment will be a matter of course."

"Meh, the Horselord will be ecstatic that his sister married up. You can't go higher than the House of Hurin!"

And finally:

"What in Eru's name is a wimple?"

Followed by a soft woman's chuckle.

At dawn they moved to their prescribed tasks, this including the sending of a courier to the west.

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The executioner was ready on his dais; Denethor was observing from a hastily erected platform. The bell was thudding grimly, a gloomy, regular BOOM accompanying every step the hapless Steward Prince and his hard eyed escort were taking. Due to unusual circumstances the execution was not staged on the 1st level's Merry Swinger's Square, the customary place for capital punishment. Not only were there few riff-raff in the city but this event was not for them. It was not to show the lower orders what happens to wrong doers and not for their entertainment either. This event was for the nobility, hence the use of an open area on the 5th level, to show the higher orders what awaited those falling foul of the true ruler of Gondor. A pity so few of the nobility had filtered back yet, the Steward bemoaned. Those higher born's that had returned - plus the lords and heirs who had not left with the Forlorn Hope - would have to serve though; they would pass on word to their cousins of what they witnessed this day.

The Steward's son watched his brother from the window of one of the town houses whose owners were yet to reappear in Minas Tirith and which gave a good view of the executioner's platform. For speed and stealth the spared son had been carried in a curtained-off litter and was now seated in the darkness of the unlighted room, with the escort in close attendance. The breaking into the building – boarded up and abandoned for the time of the siege - will be dismissed as a case of looters being scared off by the Watch before they stole anything.

The "retained" brother's manly, silent tears slid down his checks and disappeared into his stubble like into a bed of moss. His grief was misinterpreted by on looking guardsmen as being over his brother's fate - this suited him fine. He wept for his brother, he wept for his crazed father, and he wept for himself. And most of all he wept for the semi-conscious girl, drugged to function like a puppet doll, the girl he was throwing at his brother to save him. The girl he had known so briefly yet had grown hopelessly attached to. A girl he wished to show his love, to protect her, to cherish, and to make her feel loved and appreciated and safe in the certainty that her autonomy would be respected. The girl he wished to embrace, caress, hold near, to keep warm with his body, to kiss her here and there and ... and there too. Everywhere.

His heartbreak at losing Eowyn in order to save his brother was soothed by the thought that she evidently had feelings for his sibling. At the picnic yesterday she had taken a sausage from his condemned brother while showing haughty disdain towards his offering of honey glazed sweet rolls. Everything pointed to their future happiness...

.

AN

corvee - _unpaid labour due to the State, measured in days _or weeks


	2. The wimple in action - onto Anorien

Amidst the lazy tolling of the bell the sad-eyed son of Denethor was led down the mountain to the locale chosen for the execution. The Citadel Guard escort did not have much to do before they reached the square, the city still being practically depopulated. It was only on the clearing itself that the Guardsmen had to push into the crowd and use their spears - held parallel to the ground - to push back the crowd and keep them away from the Steward son's passage through the throng. The crowd was silent and grim, unsure what to make of the situation. The Steward Prince was well-loved - same as his brother - and his death for disobeying orders a harsh sentence. Still, most were military people and accepted the ruthlessness of military discipline in wartime.

A few yards before the executioner's dais the spears were swept away by strong arms and two burly men made a path for the Warden of the Keys Hurin and his strange cargo. He had not bothered to mask himself as his height gave him away anyway. The Warden carried a tall maiden in his arms (anybody else holding her would have dragged her legs in the dirt) and in a few long strides reached the Steward Prince. There the maiden - tall, fair and grey-eyed and with one arm in a sling - used her good arm to tear off the wimple holding her golden hair and draped it over the head of the - turned-to-stone with astonishment – son of Denethor. She raised her head, showing her wide-open, brightly-shining, dilated eyes and screeched:

"He is mine! He is not for the sword! He is mine!"

Hurin and his henchmen bellowed in support:

"We claim Ancient Custom! If a foreign maiden claims a man condemned to death he becomes her own!"

This set off an uproar in the crowd.

Denethor was shocked by the disruption and upheaval. Pursing his lips in disapproval he let his brain come to terms with this development. There must be a way he could turn it to his advantage.

The Steward knew he had to let them go. The Ancient Custom was as good as Law and he WAS Law and Order. And this calling upon the ancient custom, the involvement of the beautiful Rohirrim Princess in the whole affair— all that made the conspirators popular with those present in Minas Tirith; the bards will start singing of it before the day midday meal was over, he was sure. Still, his misguided cousin Hurin would not be spared his wrath ... neither his or Eomer's.

And the Warden of the Keys had family, sent out for safety to somewhere in the Western Vales. A few trusted men would have to be sent their way ...

He would have to send a letter about the whole mess to the Horselord King. But with a high level and bright courier. The man will be instructed to pick the time to pass on the missive at his own discretion. Certainly not before the battle, so as not to distract the King from more weighty matters than his sister's unexpected, putting it mildly, marriage. Some assistance to the young King would not be out of place either. Denethor smiled at the thought of pointing the young Lord of the Rohirrim in the "right direction".

Although the Wimple Casting Custom gave the newlyweds time to leave "before the first crow of the next day", a small party left the White City not long after midday. Three riders accompanied a wain carrying a driver, a woman and a boy, and two prone figures buried under blankets. Passing the ruined gate the party turned left and set out on the Great West Road towards Anorien and beyond.

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"Lord Elfhelm! Lord Elfhelm!" - the outrider cried, running from his horse to the tent occupied by the commander of the Eorling contingent clearing Anorien of orcs and Easterlings sallying from Cair Andros.

"The Princess Eowyn ... in a wagon ... escorted by Gondorians ... " - the messenger panted out his message.

[a few hours later]

Looking at the bodies in the wagon Elfhelm turned murderous. He roared at the tall Gondorian:

"What is she doing here, cur? Speak, before I force the answer out of you!"

Once the Gondorians were led away to await interrogation Elfhelm clambered upon the wain. The sight of unconscious Eowyn's pale face with dark circles under her eyes made his heart bleed. Although a sort of niece she was more like a daughter to him. He had known her from the day she was born. And after Eomund's death, with Theodwyn drifting away from the world into grief and despair, he had cared for her like a father. Checking her for wounds now made him go back in time when he checked her for cuts and bruises when she was a little girl some fifteen years ago. He saw that the small nicks of battle had healed as they should, that the broken shield arm was properly set and fastened. At least in this the Gondorian scum had not mistreated her.

The Horselord could not believe what he forced out from the Gondorians. What a bunch of orcs! What gall! What misguided love for their lord! What arrogance and disdain of the Rohirrim! They drugged the Princess with a wizard's brew - prepared by the woman Ioreth now tending to her - giving her the strength to perform the necessary acts and addled her brain as not to question what was being asked of her! And married her off ... his hands shook with fury ... he saw red...

An hour later the slightly battered Gondorians - three men and a woman - were swinging from a tree. In the Mark, the abduction of women and forcing them into marriage was punishable by death. No wergild for this crime.

The abductors swore on all that was holy that there had been no consummation - and with no midwife on hand and judging by the state of the Gondorian groom - unconscious and feverish - Elfhelm decided to believe them. Hence he commuted the sentence of the accomplices to death by hanging. The tall leader got the full sentence, though - dragged to death behind horses. Elfhelm spared the boy Bergil both the noose and the sight of his father strung up. He also let the wounded Denethorsson live. Not only was the Gondorian unconscious in a bad way - and clearly not involved in the whole affair, or only partly - but he WAS one of the Steward's sons, exiled or not.

And here Elfhelm felt out of his depth. Would Eomer King prefer that he free his sister of such a "husband" and - by widowing her - made her available for an alliance again? Would killing the son of Denethor be cause for strife with Gondor, regardless of the pertinent son being exiled or not? Not for him to answer such questions. Let Bema decide - should he live, so be it and let Eomer judge him then. Should he die - Bema's will ...

He decided to abandon the wain and to ride with Eowyn to Aldburg himself. Eothain could command the army in his steed. In the old capital of the Mark the princess would be under care of her own folk. And Aldburg lay less then three days ride away from their current station. He sent several messengers to Eomer King, some to risk the river, some to take the long route through Osgiliath. Eomer HAD to know what was being done to his sister behind his back! The Gondorian would ride with them, carried by one of the Riders. His life was in Bema's hands now.

"Lord Elfhelm" - one of the older Riders spoke, eyeing the princess in his commander's lap.

"Once we cross the Mering Stream we should find a village and look for a woman wiling to travel with us, to tend to the Wraithsbane."

"No need, my good fellow, I will tend to her myself. Past the stream it is less than two days ride to Aldburg."

The Rider, whose dress and accent identified him as being from an eored raised at Muster from men from the far fringes of the Eastemnet, near the fens of the Mouths of the Entwash was evidently flustered.

"But 'tis mighty improper -"

"I am her kinsman," he interrupted the obtuse Eastemnt rustic, Karl, he now remembered his name.

"Propriety is assured. I'm family enough," – Elfhelm said, his tone cutting off further discussion.

Elfhelm then gave the Rider a fleeting thought - did he have daughters as to bother him over propriety so?

He arranged Eowyn across his lap. This brought memories ... it was the summer after the Snowbourn had flooded ... the summer before Theodwyn died and Theoden had taken Eomer and Eowyn to Edoras. Elfhelm protested against Eomund's children being taken from Aldburg but he was judged too young - and unmarried to boot – and thus incapable of raising them. During that hot summer Elfhelm had cradled his younger cousin in his arms exactly like now. The scrawny little thing had pinworms and he kept her hands in his own to keep her from scratching herself raw. He had rocked her in his arms, biding her sleep, and dabbed her bony bottom with a damp cloth to lessen the itch.

The thoughts of kinship brought up by the Rider suddenly made Elfhelm freeze and feel cold all over. He suddenly remembered that two of Thengel's daughters - Theoden and Theodwyn's sisters - had married in Gondor. The high nobles of Gondor sometimes consented for surplus daughters to marry someone from the Mark - and such a union indeed brought prestige to the house of the Horselord in question. But they never let their sons marry any women from the Riddermark as to keep their Numenorian bloodlines pure. The daughters of Thengel were a special case, being both royalty - whatever the Gondorian might think of it - and half-Numenorean, from good stock. What if any of those Princess' had sons?

Elfhelm personally did not have much knowledge of the Noble Houses of Gondor as these were too high for him. If any of those two Theoden's sisters had sons, then their claim while Eomer lived would be irrelevant. Eorling folk wisdom held that sitting on a horse was half way towards owning it, hence Eomer - on the spot and Third Marshall to boot and with the whole Muster at his command - would be out of the blocks in the running for the Throne before the Gondorians had saddled their horses. Their mothers' seniority over Theodwyn would not matter.

His mind began to throw up ever scarier scenarios. But what if Eomer died? What if such Gondorian sister-sons of Théoden made their claims then? They could then claim precedence over Eowyn as a woman. And a woman without sons to pass on the inheritance to. And being ... wed to that Gondorian ... And if both Eomer and Eowyn died and there were NO Gondorian sister-sons of Théoden? His hair stood on end and he felt cold sweat run under his gambeson. HE was Eomund's sister-son! Bema's wrinkled ballsack! Eomer! Please don't die!

Riding westwards Elfhelm worried for the state of Eowyn's mind. From time to time she raised her eyes - sometimes clear, sometimes hazy - and looked around her. Bema knows what she saw as sometimes she giggled and babbled nonsense, while at other times she gave out gasps of fright and with a whimper buried her head in the blanket and clutched him desperately. Damned wizard's brew! Bema knows what herbs, berries, mushrooms, roots, or whatever the hag had used!

They rode for as long the light permitted. As they were travelling light, with no train, the men simply wrapped themselves in their cloaks and slept sitting or prone next to a fire. They had slaughtered a lame horse and eaten well, full stomachs helping against the springtime cold. The two run-aways were cocooned in blankets taken from the wain. Elfhelm was not particularly surprised to find himself sharing the fire with Eowyn and the Eastemnet stickler for propriety. With said stickler watching him like a hawk while pretending not to. As he was furthest possible from doing anything improper and found the man more amusing than annoying he did not command him to seek his unit's fire but ignored him instead. One more watchful eye on Eowyn would not hurt. Elfhelm then slipped into a light sleep.


	3. Feefee and Oyoy

Elfhelm was awakened by a barely discernable moan from Eowyn. He reached over the dew covered grass to her. The horselord heard her gasp and try to sit up and immediately drew her into his embrace, running his hand over her head and murmuring something to calm her down.

Eowyn woke up. It was dark. She had terrible dreams. She had no idea where she was, apart from being somewhere outside. Who was she was also a hazy concept. She gasped and struggled to sit up. Suddenly strong arms embraced her and a low voice she knew well told her that she was safe. Now she knew who and where she was. She was a girl in Aldburg, she had a nightmare and - as mummy could not be roused and Eomer would sneer at her for being "such a girl" - she had gone to her older cousin, Elfhelm. Her body hurt in various places and her arm was ... stiff? Immobile? No matter. HE was there so things must be all right. She relaxed and made herself more comfortable in his arms and whispered "Unca Feefee?". Hearing an affirmative she slipped into a nightmare-free sleep.

Elfhelm guessed that her mind must have drifted back to her childhood. At that time he had been mercilessly ribbed by other unmarried Riders - and some married ones too - of having had acquired a little chaperone protecting his virtue into the next decade. True, his love life was non-existent as her nightmares were so frequent and she came to him at night so often that he dared not risk bringing any woman to his chamber. But knowing that a little blonde waif, in her nightgown, with tear-streaked cheeks, was dashing from one pool of light cast by a torch in the corridor to another to dodge the ankle-snapping _elf in the darkness_ ... that the patter of her bare feet - in her fright and need for comfort, her slippers having been forgotten – was nearing his door ... and finally the girl leaped - as to stay out of reach of the _orc under his bed_ \- to get her cold, bony body under his blanket and hug him desperately for safety and comfort - that was worth every ribbing for "Unca Feefee" he ever got. She only had him to go to ... and he was there for her. For his little "Oyoy".

He should not have left her in Mundburg. Alone. This time he had not been there for her. But who could have expected ... what had they done to you, my precious ...

Karl eyed the Horselord warily, pretending to be still asleep. He had come to respect Elfhelm as a leader of men. But this respect did not extend to Elfhelm as far as women were concerned. He was a Lord. No matter that the young woman was supposed to be the Wraithsbane and the princess and his "kin". Everybody knew what they said about lords and their purported nieces. Lords were not to be trusted with women. Simple. Bunch of rabid lusting beasts, the lot of them.

Eighty years ago, his folk dwelled somewhere around here, in the Eastfold, in the foothills of the White Mountains. Farming, raising sheep and horses. Since the time of Eorl some girls from the village had gone to become servants at the lord's hall. Some married and settled down there, some came back with child and husband, and some came back only with child. It was best not to ask about parentage as not to hear any lies, as the answer was almost invariably "the lord's" or "the lord's son". Were their claims of parentage true or no, was the sire in fact the swineherd's helper, this did not matter - such was life, all children were a gift from Bema and cherished… more or less.

But the lord at that time, Bema curse his memory, supposedly following the lead of Fengel King, abused the girls. The girls came back wild-eyed, frightened, or did not come back at all - dead. The stories the girls told of how they had been used made an honest man's hair rise in horror.

With no volunteers, the lord's men tried to take the girls by force—some managing to run, some not.

Instructed by the lord's steward to send four of the prettiest girls to the Hall for the Yuletide feasting season, the village instead packed whatever it could and fled across the frozen Entwash into the steppes of the Eastemnet. There they suffered hardship and barely survived until spring on the edge of the Fens of the Mouths of the Entwash. And there they dwelt to this day, wary of lords and orcs – now the clan's neighbours across the Anduin - alike.

Since they were little, the clan's girls were taught not to stray and that there were worse things in the world than elves or orcs or trolls. These things being the lord's men.

"If the orcs get you, they will hurt and kill and eat you. It will hurt very much, but only a while. But if the lord's men get you they will hurt you and keep on hurting you a long, long time. You will wish to die."

This was the creed every lass knew by heart by the time she was six.

Karl the Fenlander also heard the Princess' moan. He tensed while the horselord slithered up to her and took her into his arms. His hand was on his knife to dissuade the lord from doing whatever debauchery he had in mind. But without the lord doing anything untoward or dragging her off beyond the camp he stood his station and kept watch, guarding the woman from whatever may come. Seeing the man stroking her hair and having wet checks - glistening in the light of an ember flaring up - was an inexplicable and incomprehensible development. So Karl kept his vigil. There was something about her face which made him think of his youngest daughter, Beorngyth. He let his thoughts drift homewards ... was his little treasure safe, when all men fifteen to forty-five had been mustered into eoreds? What if some orc or - even worse! - an uruk had wandered up the lazy flowing branches of the Entwash to the vicinity of their village?

After a whisper from Eowyn and some contortions Elfhelm stood up, holding her bridal style. He turned to move with her away from the fire when the Eastemnet fellow shot up and half-snarled:

"Where da ya fink yer going?"

"Lord?" came as an evident afterthought.

Now, that was pushing the Fenlander from amusing into annoying territory. Especially as Elfhelm had felt Karl's glare drilling holes into him while he comforted his little girl. He sighed and half said, half mouthed:

"She needs to pee."

In the light of the pre-dawn Elfhelm could see several emotions on the man's face. He identified incredulity. The others he could not. Finally the Rider hissed defiantly:

"I'm coming with ye."

The horselord sighed again, especially as he felt Eowyn twitch - be it from embarrassment or full bladder he did not know. But a shouting match would be even more embarrassing, he decided. He nodded and carried Eowyn to an opportune place.

"Get useful, man, hold some of the blankets," Elfhelm hissed at the rustic.

"And give us some privacy, for Bema's sake!"

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Eowyn slowly recovered during the long ride to Aldburg. They arrived at the burgh with the last light of the day. A little colour had come back to her cheeks as if the air of the Mark itself had healing properties. Most of her mind was back - she was no longer "Oyoy" and the Horselord "Feefee," but Eowyn and Elfhelm. The two cousins enjoyed their time together, recalling old times in Aldburg or the Ride to Mundburg when she had hid in his eored. Her time at Meduseld was best left unmentioned. Elfhelm discovered that she had lost most of her memory between the killing of the Ringwraith and this morning. Some memories came back when he described events in Minas Tirith they had been party to, but from the drinking of the draughts administered by Ioreth onwards she did not remember a thing. Eowyn was aghast at the Wimple Casting and her extraordinary marriage to one of the Denethorssons.

Suddenly he went red. He had to ask her something, something which in the normal course of affairs would never had been his errand to ask.

"Had he ... uhm ... erm ... touched you? Meaning ... hoom baroom ... like a husband?"

Now she went a bit pink. And pensive.

"I ... I don't know. But I don't feel any different..."

"Maybe ... a midwife could have a look at you?"

She shook her head.

"I'd know, wouldn't I?"

"But ..."

"No means no!" - she snarled.

He patted her head.

"I just care for you and ..."

"I know," she patted his hand in return.

"This is my business and mine alone. And between Eomer and I."

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At Aldburg they were greeted with cries of joy and wails of:

"Why so few?"

"Where is ... ?"

"Were the rest cut down?"

It dawned on Elfhelm that they the Mark had few or very little news yet. He bellowed over the commotion that there was a great victory, that the rest of the eored was in Anorien, that they had brought back the wounded daughter of Eomund. And he called for the leech to be summoned. He carried Eowyn inside the Hall to the best room available.

After the physician's examination and with the Princess in good care, the weary horselord went with the leech to check on the Gondorian. The leech's apprentice was cleaning up the Denethorsson and replacing his dressings. According to the poison-concocting hag, the man's wounds had reopened following a night in a prison cell and after the exertion of being marched to the executioner's block. In effect he had been slipping in and out - mostly out - of consciousness for the last few days.

"Who is this man? Why have his wounds been so neglected?" the leech pressed him.

"Some Gondorian. It might be better for him to die." Elfhelm shrugged. He preferred not to reveal the Steward-Prince's identity.

"He may yet swing, or worse, should such be Eomer King's will."

The leech and apprentice both cast sharp looks at him.

"A dangerous criminal then? Wounded when captured? A man his size must have had put up quite a fight ..."

"No, the wounds are honourable, from the Battle of Mundburg. It is... complicated. Tend to him but there's no need to treat him like a mearas mare about to foal." – the Horselord explained.

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"Remember, Captain of Gondor, that Umbar is never to rise as a threat again. The Corsairs are to be left headless and the slavers punished. All nobles and those trading in slaves are to be put to the sword. All sea-captains and shipwrights are to be killed too. All boys from such families over five feet are to be slain. Their manner of death is up to your discretion. Distribute their wives and nubile daughters among the soldiery. See to that in person."

Looking at the younger man's expressionless face the Steward added.

"This is your chance to win my favour. If you fail, there may be others waiting to take your place."

Denethor decided to share a piece of information from intercepted letters with his grey eyed and raven haired son.

"The Rohirrim have your brother. They executed the rest of the party and are awaiting their King to decide his fate."


	4. Everybody happy - or almost everybody

Eomer was ecstatic! They were ALIVE! The Halfling had WON! He sang a song of joy, joined by like chorus of coarse voices from parched throats! The Dark Lord was NO MORE! He embraced his shield brother Aragorn and both had watery eyes...

Eomer noted that a blood-splattered high-ranking Gondorian was patiently waiting to be noticed. He tore himself away from The Ranger's tall, muscular body and unshaved cheek and walked up to the man. The noble bowed and greeted him courteously.

"Westu Hal, Eomer Kunnik! I am Midhon son of Erynor. I bring you a missive from the Steward."

He handed over the letter.

"The Steward instructed me to express his most heartfelt apologies for the unfortunate incident in Minas Tirith involving your sister the..."

"WHAT! WHAT INCIDENT!?" The King of the Horselords was bellowing in the man's face, talks with Gondorian lords which Aragorn had asked him to participate in instantly forgotten.

An hour later the King of the Mark and his closest retainers were galloping towards Cair Andros, to cross the Anduin there. They rode horses supplied by the _apologetic Steward_ – this being the term used by Midhon – and which the high-born courier had brought along with him. The Eorlings kept their destriers as spares. Eomer left the army in Erkenbrand's hands with instructions to treat the wounded and return to the Mark as soon as the men's and horses' condition allowed. The agitated King of the Mark spiritedly declined any assistance offered by Gondorian lords – even those he had previously befriended - shouting gratuitous and occasionally cryptic insults at them. The most obscure of these invectives was the description of the Prince of Dol Amroth Imrahil's daughter as a "sway-backed she-moose" - most likely some literally-translated Rohirric idiom.

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Elfhelm looked at the dishevelled group that was led into his hall. It was led by a dirty woman in a mix of high quality and practical garb. Her facial features identified her a high born Gondorian. She was flanked by a girl at the cusp of womanhood and a slightly younger boy, both broadly sharing her features. Two middle aged men-servants - judging by their bearing and clothing - rounded off the group.

The woman curtsied and began to introduce herself:

"I am Aredhel, daughter of Arahelon. We come to beseech you for sanctuary as my children and I have fled Gondor. My husband had warned me that the Steward will judge his acts treasonous and urged us to flee the realm. He feared for our lives in face of Denethor's wrath as the Steward is well known for his vengeful nature. Having been sent to the Vales of Lamedon in the Ered Nimrais for safety we had but one route to take – directly north over the mountains."

Elfhelm impassively nodded for her to continue. The trails over the White Mountains they must have used were fit for mountain goats, not people. No wonder they looked worn and weary. And so early in the year! They had been lucky not have frozen to death or being killed by an avalanche.

"Is there mayhap any word of my husband? He wrote saying he would take the road to Rohan. He is Hurin the - "

She was interrupted by Elfhelm's roar,

"He is the abductor of maidens! A poisoner! Fit to be an orc! The vilest scum to walk the earth! He is dead! He was executed for abduction of maiden, forced marriage and conspiracy against the throne of the Mark!"

He was interrupted by a high pitched wail coming from the woman and was distracted enough from his own fury to see her anguished and terrified face.

"Don't kill us! Kill me! Spare the children! Please!"

She screeched as she went down on her knees before him and made a move forward to prostrate herself before him. He knew of this - rarely used - Gondorian gesture of supplication.

To his horror he saw a bump in her front. The thought of her throwing herself on her belly and miscarrying brought back a vision of his wife, Rymenhild, her skirts soaked with blood and her eyes glazing over in death.

He lunged forward, but one of his guards was faster and caught the Gondorian woman before she plopped herself on the floor.

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"You're alive ... you're alive ... " - the King of the Mark sobbed, crushing his sister in his arms. Eowyn hugged him just as fiercely and with equal emotion.

"My brother ... my brother ... my love ... but try not to break my barely set arm, you bear of a man ... "

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"So, Sister mine, what are your wishes. I will grant you anything you want." – Eomer begin. He was so glad she had not died at Pellenor – he had forgiven her riding there in the first pace – and then survived abduction by treacherous Gondorians that he would give her anything!

"First, I wish to stay here, in Aldburg."

"With Feefee?" Eomer grinned, using her old nickname for their cousin from the times when Elfhelm was too much of a mouthful for her to pronounce.

"Yes," she nodded, also with a faint smile.

"Meduseld has too many shadows for me to bear to walk its corridors. Aldburg holds much better memories for me. Here I will heal in mind and body."

"Aldburg it is then. Would you be up to a certain task to lessen my burden?"

Eowyn looked at him eagerly.

"You had been regent before. Now you could be Underking for the Eastemnet. I am going to have my hands more than full with the Westfold alone. It is a complete ruin."

She nodded, a flash of excitement in her eyes. Eomer almost wept - he had not seen so much life in those plumbeous spheres for many, many years.

"I can do that!" – the White Lady of Rohan, wearing blue that day, exclaimed.

"Just don't rush out to ride down every orc band, like I did in my time," he added with a smirk.

"Leave orc chasing to Elfhelm."

She patted his arm reassuringly and picked up her case:

"Second thing, marriage." – she drew breath.

"Now that the wimple silliness is over, now that you had freed me from the Steward's son, I may marry, but after everything that had happened - not soon. I am well aware that alliances will be sought and my hand asked for, but please put off any suits for at least a year. I may consider suitors but no sooner than in spring."

"You will never marry against your will, even if I myself have to marry some revolting rickets' ridden repelling rat from Gondor." – her brother promised her.

She hugged him in reply.

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"Two matters at hand, Elfhelm."

"Yes, Sire?"

"One is the Steward's son. I've a mind to put him to some use." – Eomer announced.

"So you will let him live, after all? The way you shook him and shouted at him the day you arrived I thought the crows would have something to feed upon. I almost put the carpenter on sharpening the stake" - Elfhelm said mirthfully.

"He is ... innocent, I feel, of the ... incident. But still he was cause of harm done to my sister and I can't forgive him that. I will use his military experience – he was a renowned leader of men of Gondor, after all."

Elfhelm could only nod – he had trained with the man and his skill with the sword was extraordinary. And had been leading companies of men against Mordor for years.

"I will send him with an eored into the Wold. Furthermore he himself pleaded with me to put him to some good use, to give him relief from his burden." - Eomer continued outlining his plans.

Eomer glanced at his cousin and waited for an explanation.

"He judges himself to carry the blood of the men and woman you executed on his head. He does not blame you for it, aware of how damning the evidence against them was. But he wants to protect those who cannot protect themselves as to pay back his debt to them for saving him from the block. The Denethorsson considers his duty to be defending his people. Now that he is banished from Gondor, from his people, he will gladly defend the Children of Eorl, as he put it."

Elfhelm nodded. Before Eomer could continue he interjected:

"Any substance behind his death sentence? He said that there was none, but you'd not expect grass to tell a horse that it is lush and tasty."

"The little time I had to speak on this with Aragon was that Denethor has a mind of steel and a heart of stone. He would do whatever he considers best for Gondor – be it sacrificing his sons if necessary. Meh – wielding the knife himself if need be. Absolutely ruthless. Holds a grudge like a dwarf and is as cunning and vengeful like a Dunlander."

The king's cousin shuddered inside at such a picture. He returned to the issue at hand and thought out loud.

"Good idea with the Wold. It could use a good man ... with me here, with you at Edoras and Erkenbrand in the Westfold. No one there. Send the Denethorsson to Maredenn and – " - Elfhelm was cut off by his King.

"Why there?"

"There used to be a Hall there." – the Horselord explained.

"All that is left of the family holding that estate is a four year old boy in my care in Aldburg. His grandfather left him here while riding for Mundburg. The grandfather died at Mundburg alongside Theoden's _huskarls_ – he was Theoden's old friend. So the Gondrian may protect the holding, maybe restore it if necessary. He'd been educated in more than just warfare, you know, he had been raised to rule and govern, that is easy to see. He even asked me for the library!" – Elfhelm added the last in a mix of awe and mistrust.

"And send that Aredhel woman with him. Please ... " – Elfhelm implored.

Eomer chuckled

"Falling for her, old dog, and afraid your control will slip while she's in mourning, eh?"

Elfhelm was serious, though.

"No! She hates me! And her children even more so. I had that Hurin put to death, after all. She makes my porridge turn when she or her brood glare at me."

Eomer turned sombre and thoughtful.

"I think I have a better use for her. With "Oyoy" - he winked at Elfhelm - "here, I need somebody to run Meduseld. She managed the Citadel in Mundburg. She surely can run the Golden Hall."

"Won't she poison you?" – Elfhelm was doubtful and displayed his newly acquired wariness of herbal blends.

"I think not. I've talked with her and she hates Denethor more than even you. The Steward wants her in Gondor, by the way. That alone makes me inclined not to send her to him, not that she is guilty of anything that idiot husband of hers had done."

"If it suits you" - Elfhelm shrugged.

"And take Gerbil with you." – he added.

"Who?" – the startled Eomer asked.

"Gerbil, the son of one of the Gondorians I condemned."

"Bergil." – Eomer corrected his cousin.

"Oh, whatever."

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Indeed the Steward's son had gone through Aldburg's library with the speed of a fire through a dry steppe. Not that there was much to go through as it numbered exactly eight books. The selection of titles – some of them familiar – and of topics, as well as a few being in elfish tongues clearly identified them as having belonged to Thedowyn. He was now eying the last unread title – a tome of sonnets in Quenya. He idly wondered whether – true to common wisdom - elfish poetry always mentioned - or at least hinted at – of maidens being kissed _there_. He'll soon find out. And then he would move on to the last thing to read in all of Aldburg – the record of horse bloodlines in the Eastfold and Eastemnet.

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Eomer approached his shield brother polluting the air with his pipe while sitting on the steps of the Aldburg Hall.

"And what of your dealings, Aragorn?"

The Dunadan was not eager to answer.

" I and Denethor have ... come to an arrangement." – he finally uttered.

Eomer King's bushy unibrow rose in question.

"I will busy myself with re-establishing the Kingdom of Arnor while he rules Gondor until his death. And he is to pay me a yearly stipend to keep me away. It is worth half of what he expects to gain from there being no more Mordor to fight. The north cannot rise by its own means so I will take what I can. And I'm to succeed him if the Council wills it so." – he shrugged dejectedly.

"That's less than I want but more than I could had forced him to give." – Isildur's heir concluded.

"And what if Denethor refuses to pay?"

Aragorn shrugged again.

"Then I wait until he dies ..."

"And what about the woman who gave you that jewel?" – the King of the Mark rivaled his subject from the Fens in his tenacity for talk about personal matters. He truly was the leader of his people in everything, gossip-mongering included.

The King of Arnor winced and Eomer could see the pain in his wind chiselled face.

"We both wait until he dies ... "

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Watching the son of Denethor ride away into the rising sun, Elfhelm smiled. He had added a personal touch to the man's punishment ...

_Two weeks earlier..._

"Karl, do you have anybody at home waiting for you? Such that your absence be greatly felt?"

"Not tha' much, my Lord. Tha'rs da missus an' yon'est brats. Lass o'sissteen an' gurl o'eight. Elest lad's wiff me an' taller 'n'me" - he added with a father's pride.

"In a fortnight's time the son of Denethor will be sent into the Wold to show his quality. He was a captain in his homeland, so he surely is capable. The question is - will he be ... proper?"

Elfhelm could see the Fenlander's narrowed eyes and knew his opinion without asking.

"I am requesting your help. Will you join my eored for a year and a day and ride with the Gondorian? As Senior Rider you would answer only to the Lieutenant and Captain."

For a heartbeat Karl hesitated - he'd become a Lord's Man! The scum of the earth ... yet in Good Cause. He nodded his agreement.

Elfhelm beamed at him happily.

"Take a fortnight's leave then, my good man, and ride to your family. The Denethorsson will not ride out without you."

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And so the White Lady of Rohan raised the stirrup cup for those who rode out from Aldburg. First for Eomer King and King Aragorn riding to Edoras. There they would separate, with the Dunadan and his followers - the Hobbits, Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli, plus all those of the Grey Company who survived the dual carnage of the Pellenor and Morannon - continuing to Isengard, to pay Saruman a visit. From there they were to strike out west, following the Greenway to Bree. Meanwhile Eomer would finally occupy the throne of the Mark and in passing install Aredhel as the chatelaine.

Then Eowyn raised the stirrup cup for the son of Denethor who – with Karl from the Fenlands stuck to him like a burr - rode under a two-horestail banner with an eored of veteran Riders to the Wold to protect the land and people from the depredations of marauders orphaned by the fall of Dol Guldur.

Gazing from the Hall's platform into the sunset, the Wraithsbane gave a thought to the Steward's son. Her former husband. She snorted with amusement. What a silly marriage it had been! With the passing of the Shadow she was now capable of laughter and merriment where previously she would have not seen any. Maybe he was not as handsome as his brother, the one offering her honey glazed rolls at the picnic just before the nightmare began, maybe he had not attracted her the way stallions draw mares to them ... yet there was something alluring about him. Alongside all his skill as a warrior and leader of man there was something gentle about his manner, Eowyn sensed a warm generosity in him. Tempting her like a smooth to touch blanket she could wrap herself in. Someday. Maybe.

The Steward's son had begged her for an audience and pleaded forgiveness for his misguided men and his brother. The Denenthorsson explained that it was an unfortunate mix of circumstances, that the plan was to get them across the border and have the marriage annulled immediately. Him she could forgive - he had been strapped to the back of a bolting horse and had no say over how things had evolved. The thought of seeing him again next year was not unpleasant in any way. But she could not forgive his brother. Not for using her so, in a manner worthy of Grima. Not yet. Maybe never.

Eowyn slipped her arm around Elfhelm's waist and leaned into him. She was happy, safe and content.

THE END

AN:

Timeline:

15.03.3019 TA - Battle of Pellenor Fields, all sorts of interesting things happen

18.03.3019 TA - the Army of the West aka Forlorn Hope sets out for Morannon

19.03.3019 TA - Denethor sentences one of his sons to death, conspiracy to save said son

20.03.3019 TA - aborted execution, courier sent to Hurin's wife, wain leaves Minis Tirith

22.03.3019 TA - courier reaches Mrs. Hurin who immediately gathers children and takes to the mountain passes

23.03.3019 TA - Elfhelm intercepts wain, executes Gondorians, sends couriers to Eomer

24.03.3019 TA . - the Umbar Expedition sails from Harlond

25.03.3019 TA - Elfhelm and newly weds arrive in Aldburg, Battle at Morannon, Eomer gets a letter

28.03.3019 TA - Aredhel and children arrive in Aldburg

30.03.3019 TA - Eomer arrives in Aldburg

20.04.3019 TA – many partings

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I'm using horsetail banners to denote military rank among the Eorlings.

One tail is an eored leader/captain

Two tails is an appointment to lead several eoreds

Three tails is a Marshall

Five tails is an Underking

The King rides under white horse on green field banner – who would have thought they would be consistent, eh?


End file.
